By MARY GREENE

First sharpen the pencils

gas up the car

spread the maps over the seat

staying always to the right.

Investigate trails that veer into the woods,

take the dog for protection,

dip a hand in the lake by the old ski trail.

Witness the smell of baking,

the chained snarling dog,

the scared face at the window.

The old man who spits

near your feet, who takes the

confidentiality statement and

crumples it to the ground.

Keep going, map the mailboxes, always

to the right. Is it necessary

to count frogs, crickets, the furtive

wild cats starving their way

into winter—to count the

fat acorns, the red and gold leaves

plunging from the maples, the tears

of the widow stammering out

her husband’s name, the rips

in the weathered high school jacket

that hangs above a cross on the highway.

The hopes of the people.

The fears of the people.

The broken windows and hidden

longings of the people. The people

who desire something, the people

who hide, the lonely people,

the arrogant, the hapless, the people

whose porches are neat and

swept, the ones who pile junk,

the people who run from you or to you

spelling their names in a dozen

languages, waiting to be found,

to be numbered, to count.